


Rest for the Weary

by pyalgroundblz (acidtonguejenny)



Series: And Yet Different [2]
Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Headcanon, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-cest, Timey Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/pyalgroundblz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cowl feels as if his bones are immensely heavy, and they drag at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest for the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon continues to reign. To recap, in this fic/series, Cowl is an Evil!Future!Harry, and "Dresden" is a Good!Future!Harry, and they meddle like a nosy old couple.

He doesn't know where their last meeting has left them. They still see each other on opposite sides of the warfront, and Cowl feels the pangs when his alternate self meddles in timelines they have no business messing with. Occasionally, when visiting Harry's present, he catches glimpses of Dresden. He finds it deeply ironic that the "good" one of them lingers in the shadows, causes his friends to fret.

Cowl's greatest allies are people with which respect is mutual. They do not fear one another. The same, he has found, cannot be said of Dresden's. His erratic behavior and ever-shifting emotional state have been noticed by many more than just Cowl. His secret antics generate weariness in his companions, worry and unease when they come to light. They mistrust his fire, his concealed anger, his too-quick, too-wide smiles.

Cowl is not as mad or unreasonable as he is believed to be. He understands that the continued presence of this world, the same one he himself inhabits depends on the balance created by their warring allegiances. Cowl has seen streams that cut from the river, fading, dead timelines where something happened to that balance, and all was forfeit in the end.

Dresden has seen them too, seen them with him. Perhaps that is why he fights so hard to continue fighting, though his heart is no longer in it as it once was. Too many truths have been revealed, too much doubt and death and struggle come at them. It is tiring, makes one want to leave it and _sleep_.

Disguised, watching and hidden as Harry goes about his blissfully uncomplicated life (no matter what it might seem like to him), Cowl misses those nights. He would trade so much for the old, familiar nightmares, for even the cold, lonely sheets and panicked, dark morning wake-ups.

Dresden meets him when their younger self is wandering the city in the proverbial calm before. They settle on a park bench some distance away, tracking the dark head that protrudes above the flow of foot-traffic. He pinches at the hooded sweat shirt of his disguise, eyes lit and mouth crooked teasingly, but he doesn't say anything.

He settles against the bench, sliding in until their shoulders touch.

As they watch, Harry concludes his business and draws out of sight. Neither moves to follow him.

Dresden turns his eyes towards the family on the lawn nearby, smiling at their children. Cowl is expecting his voice when he speaks, but not the thoroughly _wrecked_ sound of it.

Like he's been screaming, like his throat is constricting. Like he's as tired as Cowl is.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Cowl feels as if his bones are immensely heavy, and they drag at him.

"A long time." He eventually returns, exhaling through his nose. "Not since the last time at the Table, probably."

Dresden slumps into him, head resting on his shoulder and clutching his sleeve.

"Same." He says, oddly petulant.

It grows colder as they sit, quiet. The sky darkens and the crowds thin, finally petering out. Little bites of cold on his face startle Cowl from his reveries, and he looks up to see snow falling.

He breathes in the chill no-scent of it and releases, and looks forward to the morning when the sky will be impossibly clear. He can still feel Dresden at his side, the weight of his head and his breath, warming the fabric of his sweat shirt.

Cowl looks, and is astounded to find him sleeping, hand still clenched tightly around his shirt.

Dresden's body is free of tension in a way that Cowl fiercely envies, his breathing deep and even.

The weight in him seems to redistribute as he observes hard lines turned soft and measured movements, the stubborn wakefulness of his mind after--weeks, after _months_ \--abating. Cowl slumps, unable to remain upright, dropping his cheek to Dresden's snow-speckled hair as he passes out.

The pleasure of it, the sheer _relief_ is like euphoria.


End file.
